Welcome to Author Scavenger Hunt Stop #16, and an exclusive interview with R. J. Larson. R. J. is the author of numerous devotionals and is suspected of eating chocolate and potato chips for lunch while writing. She and her husband live in Colorado. The Books of the Infinite series marks her debut in the fantasy genre.

"Larson makes the fantasy genre thrilling even for readers who wouldn't normally venture into mystical realms. Though the battles waged resemble tales from the Old Testament, there is no preaching here, merely a compelling story of good versus evil in which good is sure to triumph." –Booklist

Be sure to write down the clue given toward the end of the post, and continue to the next stop on the hunt. Enjoy the interview!

Q: When did you realize you wanted to become a writer?

I never dreamed of being a writer when I grew up. Ever. I wanted to be a nurse, a teacher, or an artist—all “normal” professions. Judging by everything I’d seen and read, I believed that writers were strange, reclusive people who always wore turtleneck sweaters and glasses, and I didn’t find the idea appealing. Until my “normal” sister-in-law became an editor. I glimpsed a manuscript she was working on, and I was hooked. Within a few weeks, I emailed samples of my writing to her and she retaliated by sending me guidelines for a collection of devotionals scheduled for publication the following year. I submitted several works, which were accepted for publication, and I’ve been writing ever since.

Have I become strange and reclusive? Perhaps. But only on writing days. Glasses, yes—for fine print. Turtleneck sweaters? Um, nope. I tried them. Nevermore. 

Q: Tell me a little about your books.

My current series is best described as Biblical fantasy—inspired by stories from the Old Testament, but with twists thrown in. My characters live in a different world and each book in the series adds to their world’s own Scriptures, much like ours on Earth, but with some unexpected twists!

Q: What’s your view on e-books and the new publishing revolution? Any e-book plans in your future?

I believe e-books will become the main focus of publishers’ contracts in the future, and paperbacks and hardbacks will be relegated to secondary rights clauses—if they’re to be offered at all, depending upon the author’s expected sales. All of my books are currently in e-book format and print, but I’m convinced that some of my future works will appear only in e-form.

Q: Describe your feelings when you opened the box and saw the first published copies of your very first book?

Unreal. As if the books belonged to someone else. Seeing foreign translations—which often arrive on the doorstep without warning—adds to the surreal sensation, particularly if I don’t recognize my own name on the cover. It’s happened!

Q: What were some of the challenges for you writing your book?

Fight scenes and battles. They HAVE to be perfect, and they must be included in every storyline!

Otherwise, it’s all mere politics and lethal scheming by dastardly villains—with a dash of romance.

Q: In what ways does your faith impact how you approach writing?

My faith is a natural part of my writing, and my characters’ stories unfold with faith naturally interwoven amid all the ordinary details of their lives.  

Q: Coke or Pepsi?

Mocha. Wait…sorry. That wasn’t on the list, was it?

Q: Soft shell or Hard Shell tacos?

Both! Tacos are a perfect food, and I’ll never choose one above the other—I’ll eat them both instead.

Q: Favorite place to vacation?

Ocean. Any ocean that’s a comfortable swimming or wading temperature.

Q: Do you listen to music while you write? If so what are some examples?

I listen to Audiomachine, Evanescence, Futureworld, Nightwish, and various collections of traditional hymns, most presented by the London Symphony, or folk groups. Oh, and I love LOTR-inspired music! 

Q: Does anyone else in your family have musical/writing/artistic skills?

Yes. I mentioned that my sister-in-law is an editor. She’s also a writer. My husband, Jerry, also edits and writes, and our daughter-in-law is an amazing artist.

Q: What have you learned about yourself through your writing?

That the impossible isn’t necessarily impossible—it just takes more work. Therefore, everyone, persevere! 

Thanks R.J.! I hope you’ve enjoyed the interview and will take a moment to check out R. J.’s great books. Before you go though, you’ll want to write down this part of the clue:  and support.

Now head on over to R. J.’s website for stop #17 HERE. 

I don't think I ever prayed as much as I did the year before my oldest was born. Simple prayers, really. Father, give us a healthy child. Just a healthy child. Not much else seemed to register as important. My pleas were much the same for the kids that followed. Health, Lord, I'll bother you with little else.

Well, my heart's been broken, and if you have a child with a health condition you know the sting. There is a bubble around your child that so few seem willing to push through. It doesn't matter that your kid is beautiful or kind or loving, others see the struggle and don't know what to say, how to say it. 

So they say nothing. And you watch with sadness, and not a little guilt, as this precious person walks quite alone on the earth.

I want to scream, "See my kid ... I know there are things you don't understand, but don't walk away, or around; don't turn you heart, or your back. My kid won't push like your other friends. My kid will stand, never too far off, waiting, waving, hoping that you'll say hello. Hoping for a bit of your smile ..."

But I don't, scream that is. Instead I watch, from inside my own bubble, and tell myself friends will one day come. Yet, my child doesn't seem concerned. My child trusts and hopes and trusts some more, with a smile that lights up the room. Friends will come. Someone will see me. God won't leave me alone.

I prayed for my child's health. I didn't get it. I got a kid who finds joy in the middle of the pain.

Maybe I got what I prayed for after all.

Live in Minnesota? Have nothing to do tomorrow morning? (Saturday the 21st) Goodness knows it's too COLD to go outside. I'll be speaking--yes, and signing--INSIDE at the Edina Barnes & Noble Store (in the Galleria) at about 10:30 am. I would love to see all 1,126 of my FB friends there! 

So come on out! (There's food!)

I've done it--written a book with a ridiculously long name. Aldo's Fantastical Movie Palace is about twenty characters too long, so I will abbreviate: AL-FA-MO-PA! ALFAMOPA is a wonderful book name ... it also turned out to be a rather wonderful book. My first fantasy. ALFAMOPA comes out in May, but like all books of distinction, it is best enjoyed if pre-ordered and anticipated. So to allow you the full ALFAMOPA experience--the clicking, the ordering, the waiting, the dreaming--I now include this link for your convenience.

http://www.amazon.com/Aldos-Fantastical-Palace-Jonathan-Friesen/dp/0310721105/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1325613646&sr=8-1

Enjoy!

At age 5. Staying up until 10:00 pm and falling asleep in front of the fireplace, magically waking up in my own bed.

At age 15. Drinking Sparkling Catawba juice (Mennonite Champagne) with my family. Saying good-night to the sleepy folks around 11:00, and wishing very much I had my driver's license.

At age 25. Going out with my wife of one year to Riverplace, downtown Minneapolis. Watching fireworks, listening to rock music, and experiencing the feeling of very un-Mennonite champagne dripping down my head.

At age 35. Staying awake all night ... holding my months old son, so sleep-deprived I did not realize it was New Year's Eve, begging the boy to stop wailing and fall asleep so I could, too.

At age 45. Tonight. Three kids. Big TV. Five movies. A break from veganism and a dish of pre-cooked shrimp, AND an absolutely gorgeous wife. Score.

It might have taken me forty-five years to achieve New Year's Eve perfection, but it was worth the wait. Happy New Years All!

What makes us human is not our mind but our heart,

Not our ability to think, but our ability to love.

                                        Henri Nouwen

How do you define the “Best Night Ever?” Does going on a mini shopping spree, having dinner out, and seeing your favorite music act live in concert sound like it would do the trick? If so, read on!

To celebrate the release of, TWISTED, the third book in her Intertwined series featuring Aden Stone, Gena Showalter is rocking out with her author buds on The TWISTED Tour. The tour spans almost two weeks and 11 author websites, including this one, from August 22nd through September 2nd. The Grand Prize winner will be awarded all the essentials for a perfect night out, including:

- $250 Ticketmaster Gift Card

- $100 American Eagle Outfitters Gift Card

- $100 Visa Gift Card for Dinner

- Glam Urban Decay Makeup Gift Set

A Second Prize winner will receive an autographed set of Gena’s Intertwined series, including INTERTWINED, UNRAVELED and TWISTED.

HOW TO PLAY: Visit www.knightagency.net/twistedtour.php and check the tour schedule. Visit the sites of each author on their assigned tour date and locate the concert ticket image.

At the end of the tour, fill out the form on the aforementioned TWISTED Tour contest webpage by matching the images you found to the authors’ websites that they were located on before Sunday, September 4^th at 11:59pm ET. The winners will be randomly drawn and notified on or around September 9^th, 2011.

Good Luck & ROCK ON!

TWISTED Tour Author Quiz: When I Was a Teen…

1. What did you do during your “Best Night Ever” as a teen?

Seriously? I know the statute of limitations has run out on that night, but you couldn't pry it out of me.

2. What musical act topped the charts?

Prince. Appearing at First Avenue. Toughest ticket in town. Didn't help that he was local.

3. What was the most overused expression by you and your friends?

I'm thinking um or uh. Come to think of it, those are still my most overused expressions.

4. What did you think you would be when you “grew up?”

Anything but bald. That's a tragic irony.

ALA. That was a mighty nifty weekend. For those of you who are acronym challenged as I am, it stands for (the) American Library Association, and they had their big Annual event in New Orleans.

I'd not been to New Orleans, well, not really. I drove through it on the way to doing some Katrina relief years ago, but driving through it doesn't really give you the flavor. 

I'm not entirely sure hanging out in the French Quarter gives you the flavor either. Bourbon Street, Canal Street, they all seem like the kind of place nine out of ten tourists visit, but one out of four locals ever go. It's a different world, for sure.

But I'm off track. I really just wanted to thank Jacque (pronounced Jackie if you're reading this aloud) and Gwen and all the cool Zondervan people who gave Jacque her Zondercard for the wonderful time. And a big thank you to Harper Collins who made it possible.

Mighty kind folks. And for all the smiling librarians, media specialists, information techs, authors and students who stopped on by, I wish you the best of weeks! Let's do it again next year.

I heard a kid singing yesterday. A little kid. Five, maybe six. I don't remember the lyrics, but I can give you the soul of the thing:

Oh, Baby why do you make me feel so bad? I'm lying alone tonight wondering where you are. Etc. Etc.

When I was five, I spent very little time wondering where anybody else was, certainly while in bed. But that's not what got me thinking.

See, I loved to sing when I was a kid. If my heart wasn't being wrought in two, what was I singing about? I will now provide you with the Jonathan Friesen five-year old iTunes playlist.

1. B-I-N-G-O and Old McDonald Had a Farm  (These blur in my mind, probably the EIEIO and the BINGO thing.)

2. Row, row, row your boat. (I sang this over and over. A round, they called it. You can't sing Lady Gaga in a round . . . WAIT, YOU CAN. I just tried it with Telephone / Bad Romance. Horrifying.)

3. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot (I had no idea this was about death until like, last year.)

4. Free to be You and Me! I have completely forgotten this song! Tragic.

5. It's a Small World After All   This was a classic that meant absolutely nothing as I sang it.

6. Ninety-Nine bottle of Beer on the Wall    (This was a bus song. It must have driven teachers crazy, although I don't remember reaching one bottle) Special note: When parents were around the beer was changed to pop. Go figure.

7. Jesus Loves Me.   This was an all purpose tune. Probably the only one still on my playlist.

8. Old Uncle Ned  My Dad played this depressing ode to me at bedtime, but somehow he could sing about an old guy slowly decaying and it was all right.

9. MICKEY MOUSE  (Mickey mouse. DONALD DUCK! Mickey Mouse. DONALD DUCK!  You sorta had to be there.)

10. Oh, Home on the Range   I'm not sure how this cowboy tune snuck into our house, but I loved it.

11. Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore    I have no idea what Michael was doing on the water in the first place, or what waits for him. The other verses were equally confusing. Something about Sisters and Brothers.

12. How Much is that Doggie in the Window?   An existential question! This always left me feeling melancholy. It never resolves. You just stop singing. You don't get a dog. The puppy is still stuck behind the glass.

I'm sure I missed some, but that's a good start. If any of you find an eight track with these twelve tunes, I'd pay a pretty penny. Wait, you couldn't fit twelve on an eight track. Or could you?

I worked very hard today. Yep. I spent hours and hours and hours writing. I was trying to think of just the right words to create just the right feel, and it was a tough one. Things weren't going my way, as it were.

So, I took a break and read some news articles. Turns out that the most important event reported in the world today was Justin Bieber's (I don't know if I spelled that right) income. This is a trend. A few weeks ago I found out that Justin Bieber has a tattoo. Yahoo! showed a close-up. This was more important than the economic report, apparently, but I digress.

As I said, I was taking a break and discovered that last year JB earned (made) 53 million. WHICH IS THE EXACT SAME AMOUNT I MADE! HOW INSANE IS THAT? Well, give or take.

And I thought, what a profoundly talented young man he must be to have such a hefty portfolio. (I know little about him.) I went to YouTube. You're probably way ahead of me on this one, but I watched a video of one of his songs--Baby, I think it was called. Turns out I'm not the only one to have seen it. 

From his video, I gleaned some crucial get rich secrets which I will now share with you.

1. Bowl. This seemed especially important to Justin. But do not attempt Co-Ed bowling. Girls on one lane, boys on the other. This is important.

2. Hand gestures. While experiencing any emotion, it is beneficial to throw your hands out in the direction you are facing. 

3. Stand against a wall. If you stand with your back against a wall, good things happen. You are allowed to dance, emote, close your eyes--anything. Just remember: Back to the wall. This is a good thing.

4. Find friends who talk. You must sing and gyrate. But you can have friends who talk. JB's friend appears midway through and starts talking. (They may also make hand gestures.) I did not understand him, but that doesn't seem to bother anybody. Nor does the fact that he's three times Justin's age. But whatever.

5. Hair. It must point in the same direction as your nose. Forward and sloped down. As I am bald, this is the part of the get-rich plan I may struggle with.

6. Sing inspired lyrics. I took careful notes here as I'd spent all day struggling to write powerful pages. I came away feeling like maybe I needed to simplify. As far as I could gather, Justin got away with:

Baby. Baby. Baby. Oo.

Like Baby. Baby. Baby. No (or Noo)

Baby. Baby. Baby. Oo.

I thought you'd always by mine (or nine, which at times seemed appropriate).

So there you have it. The six steps to wealth. Again:

Bowl. Hand gestures. Stand against walls. Find friends who talk. Nose-sloped hair. Inspired lyrics.

See, it really isn't that hard. The next time you struggle to pay that bill, don't fret. Just throw that hair forward, grab a bowling ball, and fling yourself against a wall. You can do this, baby!

A sincere thank you--and good luck--to all who entered The Last Martin Writing Contest. I wish we could keep taking submissions, but unfortunately, I'm told we can't.

I can't wait to read the pieces sent my way, and to meet one of you in person!

Again, thanks for participating. Look for the winners to be posted all over my website: www.jonathanfriesen.com.

Today I met a dumb wood tick. I liked him/her. I'm sure there is a way to tell gender, but today all I cared about was her (I'm tilting female here) IQ. And it was low.

I spent a good piece of today in her territory. High grass, tall weeds. Wood tick paradise. So when I came in I gave myself the inspection. Sure enough. Mid-thigh, right leg, dumb tick.

I reached down, gave a slight tug to ascertain just how deep she'd gone, and pulled. Easy release. I said a few words--gave her a good scolding--and sent her the way of all toilet paper. It's hard not to feel a bit sad for the buggers as they swirl helplessly, but such is life.

Now back to the dumb part. She likely started at the boot and crawled up, wearing out on the leg and setting up shop. Dumb. 

See, I'm not twenty-two anymore. Nope. Had she crawled onto the belly, she'd have found plenty of nice rolls in which to hide. And not just on the stomach. Everything on me is just . . . saggier. There are great hiding spots all over. I'm a wood tick's hide-and-seek dream.

But no. Not dumb tick, She came to a halt in the one place I can see without much effort, without contorting and messing up my back. Leg. Middle. Front.

So here's to all you stupid thigh-loving wood ticks. Eat your heart out. Or get smart--my septic is a rotten place to spend your final days. 

I am being audited. Again. I was last year, the year before as well.

The letter looks innocent enough, until you open it. I called the number on the bottom to talk to my friend, the IRS. A young man, ready for a fight, picked up the phone.

"Name!"

"Wuh?"

"Name!"

"Having a rough day?" (For the record, it was 9 a.m.)

Now I meant this as a sincere question, but it was not taken well. I'll skip his next line.

"Easy now," That's me again. "Jonathan Friesen. You're auditing me. Are you Tim?"

"No."

"Cause Tim audited me last year and I wondered if you sort of kept the relationship going."

"No, we don't."

"Don't what?" I asked.

Long pause here.

"Why'd you call?" he asked.

"Why'd you write?"

"Listen, do you have a question or not?" It sounds gruff, but he was actually softening.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Steve."

"Last name?"

I will leave this part out for everyone's benefit.

"Okay, great," I said. "And what's your phone number and job title?"

He told me. "I'm a revenue examiner."

"Been doing that long?"

No answer.

"Okay," I said, "I think I have all the info I need. No wait. I need the last four digits of your social to verify who you are."

I actually thought I heard a number here, but Steve caught himself.

"So you don't need anything?" he asked.

"Nope, I got it. I'm excited about working with you on this project."

"You are?" he asked.

"Oh yeah. All the kids are on the line. They get to listen and learn about taxation." This was not true. I flat out lied to the IRS. I confess.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Call back if you have any questions."

"You too," I said. "Don't be a stranger."

We both hung up.

I do not have any of the supporting documents I need, I will lose money. I will lose time. But somehow, just hearing the confused voice of the IRS answering MY questions makes me feel a little better. 

Do you have a mother? Bet you do, or did. They come in all shapes and sizes and I think that's great. I have one, a mom, that is. A great mom. Know what I like best? 

I like my sitting mom. 

I am now nearing forty-four, but to a mom, this doesn't matter too much. Along with the sibs, I am still likely worried about and wondered about and prayed for and in twenty years I reckon this will still be the case. Momness doesn't go away.

I like Momness. It means food will be plentiful when I pop in at my folks, and if it isn't, Momness means my mother will move quickly to be sure one of my favorites is on the way. Momness equals little gifts, little thoughts. It plants newspaper clippings in noticeable places--something read made her think of me. Now that the computer has come, Momness keeps my inbox sprinkled with forwarded messages: dangers to avoid. (Do not use your cell phone while pumping gas!) Helpful hints. (Do you know fifteen alternate uses for a fabric softener square? I do.)

Momness also means holidays will happen, birthdays will be remembered (goodness knows the rest of us would forget). Christmas Momness ensures new socks, new gloves--all the things needed to stay comfortable and safe. Probably some almonds. Definitely a pastry shaped like a fish--all Christmas certainties because Mom is mom.

While I dig all of that, the best part of Momness, the part that fills the heart and not just the stomach, is when she sits down. Yep, a sitting Mom. An I-am-dropping-all-the-things-I-want-to-do-for-you-and-instead-will-just-be-with-you Mom. When Mom sits, the entire house stills, and so can I. It's quite a gift when Mom sits.

It's a gift because I think, oh Moms of the world, that it goes against your grain. So when you do slow, it is really quite heroic, much more so than when I slow (that is, after all, my normal speed).

So here's to sitting Moms everywhere! And here's to my sitting Mom. Sitting or moving, I love you. I love your Momness.

And not just today.

j

I love contests. I won the first one I ever entered. I had to draw "Cubby," this cute little bear from the TV guide. Yep, I won $25, which in 1973 bought a lot of baseball cards.

The draw Cubby people said I had a future in the visual arts. I don't know about that. I do know writing has worked out pretty well. So here's the deal, Zonderkidz is sponsoring another contest in conjunction with the release of THE LAST MARTIN.

Some of you can stop reading right now. 
Do you live in Fiji? Sorry. Residents of the United States only. Next time we'll reach across the pond.

Are you sixteen? Whoops. Just a wee bit too old, Fourteen is the age limit.

Do you insist on writing thousands of words? Nope. Here we want two hundred words or less. Brevity rules!

Is your last name Friesen? Sorry darling, you can't enter your dad's contest!

But for the rest of you . . . here is your chance to meet me, and snag the eyes of Zondervan big shots! (And score some awesome books in the process.)

So, calling all US residents, fourteen and under, willing to limit themselves to 200 words, and who aren't named Friesen. This contest is for YOU!! 

Rules are on my website. Best Wishes to you all!

What could be worse than enduring a bad soccer game . . .

Watching a good game in which your son is playing well . . .

And living ninety minutes away from every practice . . .

And having him play on multiple teams . . .

And watching gas hit 3.79 while you barely clear 25 mpg . . .

And handing the gas station guy your last twenty, knowing tomorrow you'll be right back here, watching him grin and snatch more money while you drive to soccer . . .

And having your boy love the game so much you know you won't be saving money anytime soon . . .

Even though your next book IS due soon . . .

And you are spending tons of time speaking . . .

And at each engagement you are offered decadent and tempting foods (see last post) . . .

And then you come home exhausted, to an empty tank, just in time for the next soccer practice . . .

What could be worse than that . . . 

Lots.

A few days ago, my son and I were on our way back from soccer, and we were famished. We passed by a Jimmy Johns. I'd never been to a Jimmy Johns.

We stopped in and ordered the Vegetarian. I took a bite. WOW. Was it good. Too good. I picked inside. Cheese. Lots of cheese. For eight years I've been carefully picking out the stuff. Not this day. I ate it. I enjoyed it. The Slide began.

Three days ago, a tuna sandwich. Two days ago, cheese pizza. Yesterday, more cheese pizza. I'm out of control! I'm falling off the wagon. I'm reciting the twelve steps, but it's doing no good.

Hi, I'm Jonathan, and I'm a carnivore . . .

Ugh. I need a support group. I need to get off the road. I need a cheese . . . see? It's that bad.

I'm dreaming of sloppy, juicy reubens.  I've entered The Vegan Slide. 

The top ten reasons THE LAST MARTIN should be the very next book you read:

10. It may well be the strangest book you'll read, which makes it perfect for April Fool's Day. (If you cannot remember your last belly laugh, the book is especially important medicine.)

9. No radiation leaks have been detected from any portion of the book.

8. You get two stories in one, making it a virtual lock that you'll love at least one of them.

7. If every person in Libya set down their guns and simultaneously read this book cover to cover, for three hours there would be no reason for a no-fly zone. Must be powerful stuff, eh?

6. Oprah did not pick it as a book pick. Though she did pick a book by Jonathan Franzen, and that's really close to Jonathan Friesen. (Okay, yeah, I'm still miffed about the overlook.)

5. You know you are a little obsessive--Martin will make you feel a whole lot better about yourself!

4. The book weighs 16 oz, none of which are fluid ounces, so it's perfectly safe to take aboard airplane flights.

3. The cover jacket is printed to create a 3-D effect, giving you something to look at with those cheap 3-D glasses you have lying around in your junk drawer.

2. Uncle Landis and the deer story. One-third the way in. Priceless. 

1. You'll close the book feeling grateful and with a smile on your face.

There you are!! Enjoy!

Martin. If you have not met him yet, this is your chance. Don't expect him to say hello. His mouth would open and you might sneeze and we all know where that would lead. Don't expect him to shake your hand either. The bacteria count of the average palm is staggering. Plan on inviting him to play catch? Forget it. Those old gloves are filled with microbes. Cuticle rot, you know.

People are just too germy for his liking. And germy means sick. And sick means dead. And Martin isn't about to lose one day of his miserable life on account of your hand infestation.

Of course, he's in danger of losing much more than a day. Curses will do that, you know. But don't tell him he's cursed. He doesn't know and it's best that way . . . oh, just read it and find out the whole deal!

Yeehaw! Martin's here! 

We have female cats. Who cares, right? The male cats do. So we have lots of kittens. Yeah, I know, get them "taken care of"--but that takes money.

We do a lot of kitten-giving. We gave a handsome male to a friend. The friend couldn't take it. The cat was too cotton-pickin' friendly. Always underfoot. Never mousing. So we took the cat back, thinking he exaggerated. 

He did not. This dumb cat is everywhere. In the car. In the house. In the barn. This cat loves people.

We had a big ski race up here. 58K, I believe. That's a long race. 2,000 folks come from across the globe to ski this thing . . . which happens to cross the river just off our property. It's fun to watch. Skier after skier huffing and gliding down the hill, across the frozen ice, then up the far hill to the finish line.

My kids wanted to get a closer look, so they skied down to the river's edge.

My people cat went too.

My people cat watched for a while, then it became too much. That dumb thing raced onto the ice and back and forthed as exhausted skiers from Norway whisked down the hill, then bit it to avoid the dumb cat. 

That's the thing about people cats. Even if you hate'm, it's really hard to resign yourself to running them over. 

So to the fifteen or twenty skiers who lost the race because of my cat, I apologize. Though it was really fun to watch. 

In high school I won the most improved cross-country skier award. The reason? By the end of the season, I had enough stamina to complete the girls' distance of 5K.

That's right. Most improved. I finished last at that distance. Susans and Julies and Rachels all flew by me. But I thought to myself, I may be pokey, but I'm most improved. None of these super-fast ski babes are most improved.

Few others seemed to understand the importance of my award. When I pulled up to the finish line, they had removed it--the whole line! The timer was gone, my team was loaded on the bus, and the trail lights were off. 

But I was most improved.

An award like that goes a long way. Tonight our family went skiing, It was time to show off, to show the kids a thing or two from Dad's glory days. My kids skate ski. I stay in the groomed tracks. My kids go fast, I barely move.

My kids fell. I did not.

They completed the course and were waiting at the van. My wife had the old dog running, the kids were eager to get home.

"Most improved," I huffed, again and again. "I'm most improved."

I arrived at the van, exhausted. "I still got it! Zero falls for the big guy!"

Then I tried to step out of my skies. I clicked easily out of the first one. Twenty minutes later I'm still jabbing my pole at the release on number two.

"Come on, Dad!"

"Honey, it's getting late!"

Fine, I one skied over to the car and swung into my seat, my ski hanging out. I buckled and grabbed the door. "Drive."

"There are other ways to do this, just slip out of your--"

"Just drive, please."

I skied home. One foot zipping over the highway. Yes, it was illegal. No, it was not a good example for the kids. But doggone, I skied far more than 10K.

Definitely, most improved. 

So I have this Big News. It's good. It's really good. And it's big.

Big News. I have been sworn to secrecy. This is irritating. Do not give me BIG NEWS then swear me to secrecy. You keep your BIG NEWS to yourself, then tell me when I can tell the world.

This protocol was not followed. So I am left to blog about BIG NEWS, without sharing my BIG NEWS.

On the other hand, wow, just think what it MIGHT be! It COULD be ANYTHING! I can't even tell you what it is NOT. That would limit the options.

And don't you try to wriggle it out of my wife. No sir. I haven't even told her! Yep! That's right. She doesn't know. Not that she can't keep a secret, but she likes to tell ONE PERSON. Not this time. I bear the burden of this great, big, wonderful news all on my own shoulders.

So I think I'll stop there. But when you think of me, just think BIG NEWS! Yep. Jonathan BIG NEWS Friesen.

Today is proof that you can love dumb things.

My dog is a dumb thing. If you've met Yoder, you know this--one big, fluffy, goofy, barky dumb thing. 

Yoder doesn't come. I've never had a dog that didn't come before. What good is a dog that won't come? Not much. The dog then falls into the dumb dog category.

But I still love the dumb dog.

Today, the dumb dog chased a cat, squeezed into a seven inch crack beneath my chicken coop and got stuck. A real live Chicken Dog.

"She got in, she can get out."

That was hour one and two. By hour three, I wasn't so sure. Hour four, and I'm out with my ice pick and axe, hacking at the frozen ground cause that dumb dog is officially stuck. She stuck her head out, then a paw. I reached in to pet her and she bites at me. Now I'm angry at my scared, dumb dog.

"Fine, stay under the coop!"

I try to walk away. 

You can't walk away from your dumb dog. Another hour. She's getting cold. Her white coat is brown, my daughter is in a tizzy, my son wants to axe my chicken coop, and my wife has had it.

But I love this dumb dog.

I sit back and look at her head poking out. I look at the food lying around the coop, food we put there to get her to push out the hole she entered. Yesterday, I was tired of my dog. The day before, too. But not now. Now I'm going to sit here until my dumb dog freezes or I freeze because if she's never coming out, at least she deserves some company.

"Jonathan? Come in!" That's my wife. "It's cold out there!"

"No, I will not come in. This dog is family. This dog needs me. There is an owner bond I will not break. I am not leaving my beast!"

Then that dumb dog opened her eyes and SQUIRT! All of her popped out and she stood standing there, dining on fish and baiting delicacies from our table--in short she was eating my dinner. 

My girl grabbed her and yanked her inside for a real long bath. A soapy, bubble bath that smelled of raspberries.

I peeked my head into the bathroom. That dog was smiling, I tell you. My dumb dog was playing me, I just know it. Worming in on my affections. Muscling in on my kipper snacks and feasting on the table food we held out to her when "stuck." Getting in a free nip, to get me back for all the times I stuck her in the kennel. That dog is brilliant. She was low on affection so today she stole the love from all five of us. 

"Oh, you poor thing."

"Please, come out Yoder."

Tear, tear. Love, love. Fresh fish. Fresh clean raspberry coat.

I don't have a dumb dog. The Chicken Dog is a formidable opponent. Next time, I will not be so easily fooled.

My son plays soccer. He plays all year. This would not be a problem if we lived in Florida, but we don't. We live in Minnesota. So in order to play year-round, my son needs to play under a high roof, or a bubble.

There are no high roofs or bubbles where I live. The nearest high roof or bubble that has turf beneath it is more than an hour away.

So we spend lots of time in the car. And at the gas station. Gas ain't cheap. So I have promised my lovely that I won't waste extra money on fast food. (Something about driving makes me hungry.) But at every gas station, there it is . . . The Nut Rack. Have you looked at The Nut Rack? It's enormous. It's made just for husbands who have promised their wives they will NOT stop for fast food.

I always walk very slowly toward The Nut Rack. (I don't want to lie if my wife asks about fast food.) Nope. Everything is slow and easy. Just like the choice once I get there. Cashews. I will buy cashews.

There is a problem with cashews. A bag of peanuts: $1.19. A bag of almonds: $1.49. A bag of cashews: $21.49. Okay, maybe not quite, more like $5.49. What gives? Is there a cashew shortage? Is there a cashew embargo? Where do these buggers come from and why are they so cotton-pickin expensive? 

You pay $50 to fill up your tank and BAM! You shell out $5 for a handful of cashews. The obvious solution: don't buy 'em. But it doesn't go like that. Once you're infected by habit, you can't resist The Nut Rack. Cashews are like nutty nicotine. Tricky little fellas. And don't try rationing either. Have you ever eaten one cashew? Not possible. 

It gets worse. You're driving 65 down the highway, you're steering with your legs as you try to find the proper end to open. You give up and stick the wrapper in your teeth and rip. Cashews fly all over the car, most of them landing in that little crack between your seat and the center console. I hate that little crack. It gobbles most of my cashews.

"Cashews are fatty nuts." Yeah, yeah. I know. But this cashew conspiracy is for real. Someone is cranking up the price of cashews and good people like you and me need to put our feet down. My last bag? $5 for 29 cashews. That's 17.2 cents per nut. And the car eats half of 'em.

So beware the nut rack. Take it from an addict. Just say no.

So I call the pharmacy to get a refill on my prescription. "I'm sorry, there are no more refills remaining. We'll have to call your doctor."

Whatever.

They do. They call back. "Your doctor wont reauthorize the medicine until you have a physical."

Fine. 

So I stroll into my doctor. The receptionist-nurse-type person asks me why I'm here.

"I don't know," I say. "I need my prescription refilled."

She looks at me like I'm lost. 

"It wasn't my idea," I add.

I sit down in the waiting room. I wasn't sick when I walked in, but it will be something if I'm not when I walk out. Hacking. The rough stuff. They belong here. Not me. I just want my stupid prescription.

Finally. "Jonathan!"

I stand and follow Helga toward the scale. Weigh in. Helga offers some wise cracks. Not appreciated. We get to waiting room number two.

"Why are you here?"

"I want my prescription filled."

She too looks at me like I'm lost. But she takes my vitals, and powers up a computer. No more charts. Now my body condition is sent to the CIA, or whoever keeps tabs on authors who just want to fill a prescription and end up sitting in a lovely open-backed gown.

More time passes and the doctor comes in. First question. "Why are you here?" He doesn't know. I count to ten. "Because you wouldn't fill my prescription until I came here."

Then the questions. Questions are different now.

"Do you exercise?" (Yes.) I lied.

"How often? (Uh, 2-3 times a week)

Heart murmurs? Heart palpatations? Heart pain? (Uh)

Do you smoke? Do you drink? (No, but--)

Do your legs swell? Are you constipated? Do you struggle to urinate? (Now wait just a doggone--)

Can you hear? How's your vision? Any strange smells? (What kind of smell--)

Signs of arthritis? Do you wear dentures? (How old do you think I--)

Are you sexually active? (With my wife.) That doesn't count. (Wuh?)

Do you have any memory problems? (I don't know.) This was the wrong answer, by the way.

Okay, stand up and--well, some details are best left unmentioned. This is a family site. 

I tell you I felt a vibrant forty-something on my way in. By the time I weaved through the wheezers in the main waiting area, I was old. Way old. 

Leave it to my doctor to make me feel sick.